


Discovery

by Russian_Fic_Store



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Cultural Differences, Gen, Time Period: Time of Isolation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 17:18:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7627138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russian_Fic_Store/pseuds/Russian_Fic_Store
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the Time of Isolation ended.</p><p>Author: Larshire<br/>Translated from Russian by Larshire<br/>Written for WTF-2015, Barrayar team</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discovery

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Открытие](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6446677) by [Russian_Fic_Store](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russian_Fic_Store/pseuds/Russian_Fic_Store). 



“Ramy, whatcha jeering at? Found a Betan dollar or something? Spend it on booze right away, shall we?”  
Ramy Tolinny walked up to the bar, spoke to the bartender and returned, waving a chilled bottle – wiping the hoarfrost off, he demonstrated the label and set the bottle on the table, along with a couple of shot glasses.  
“A dollar, right,” said he a tone lower, “Zev, what I found is… a new tunnel! You’re the first to hear that, friend.”  
“Would you just shut up, Ramy. A new tunnel, like, right from this restroom.”  
“Believe or not...”  
“Not, I do not. Go tell that to the pilots club. Anyway, here’s to you.”  
Hands folded over his breast, Ramy turned to face Zev.  
“Where do you think Lior’s telling tales now? Yes, at the pilots club, trying to describe what rainbow color she turned into!”  
“Ramy? Ramy, why the hell… you just up and entered a tunnel you found? Who do you think you are - Betan Astronomical Survey?”  
“We were out of work and, shall I say bored? Aren’t you bored yet?”  
Ramy downed his glass and poured another.  
“And where does it lead?”  
“Just don’t fall over. It’s a M-class planet. A real M. Breathable air, aboriginal life, the stuff.”  
“...”  
“Uh-huh. And if the realspace navigation atlas is to be trusted, they’ve founded a colony there some six hundred years ago. The Barrayar Terraforming project.”  
“A colony six hundred years old?”  
“Yes. We kept a low profile, knowing the directives. Entered orbit, dropped a probe…”  
“And?”  
“There’s forests, Zev, fields and gardens. There’s people walking and you know what - riding! Riding horses! The military carry guns and those, the word… sabers at the belt. There’ nothing technical at all, not a machine to see, their roads are just strips of trampled ground. Stone castles are built on hilltops, with towers like in the Equinox amusement park, - the classmate drank up and watched the waitress bring a tray.”  
“Have some, don’t refuse. I know you’ve been down.”  
“Tell me why are you feasting then, what’s the reason? Well, I admit you got a cool story, can make hell of a vid script.”  
“You’re just not risky enough, Zev. That’s the volunteer’s reward for finding a new hole in the sky. Our Astronavigation Bureau pays up at once, just upload the logs to them. A thousand eight hundred fifty on my account in a flash. Someday they’ll maybe go check up, confirm and so on — well, you know their lazy bums. I mean, I haven’t told about the probe.”  
They ate up the cloned meat and noodles, finished the now-lukewarm bottle, Ramy wrote coordinates on a napkin and departed. As soon as the door closed behind him, Zev shook his head, rose, took a sobering capsule from the vending machine, got a cup of coffee and moved to a booth with a comm panel.  
“"Barrayar"!” commanded he to the seeker.  
The infonet of Komarr had nothing but the fact of colony establishment, a list of some names from six centuries ago and the notice of interrupted contact. There also were a couple articles on tunnel closure phenomena, but they’d take a Ph.D. in five-dimensional math to dare reading, so Zev did not.  
A query to Earth will have to pass through… Zev Biton added up, as many times before: Pol-Hedgen-Jackson-Escobar-Tau —a total of nineteen jumps one way. With hourly couriers that could be done in a day, and then as long for an answer. The tariff calculator showed a stiff sum, but he paid. By the way, as Zev was sitting in front of a comm, he also searched for “Horses”.  
Above the slew of biology and history articles, a context ad popped up.  
_“The one and only in the Galaxy! Humanity Heritage Show! Stars of the Old Earth!  
Equestrian and historical martial arts parade! Only at Solstice!  
Low-res recording - 250 milli!  
Hi-res recording - 500 milli!  
Book a ticket for the nearest date - 10 UKA!”_  
Zev chuckled and paid for low-res. Spending half a United Komar Accreditive for a bunch of moving pixels could wait.  
***  
For a separate fee one could look at the beasts up close. The noisy children have been led away already, and the handler — a tall, wiry guy dressed in dirty overalls with out-of-dome excursion boots was cleaning up, shoveling manure from individual pens. The horses snickered, shovel clanged over concrete, the smell was better than Zev feared. Not rot or excrement, but rather just something warm, breathing, alive. The ventilation howled, struggling to bring the temporary stable’s air to standard.  
Zev walked closer, the guy straightened up and dumped the shovel load into the collector.  
“How’s pay?”  
“Sir, if I was paid more,” replied he with an Old Earth accent, “I’d hire a subcontractor. Or are you willing to try?”  
With a chuckle, Zev retorted:  
“Keep trying. The heap’s big enough.”  
The guy stepped forward, fingers gripped the plastic handle in a different way. Anybody could have been in the knight’s armor, the Mongolian archer was surely a different man, but this was the one doing the Cossack with the sabre and cowboy with revolvers. Zev took a step back, raising empty palms:  
“Sorry. Bad joke. No, I’m not interested in working here. I’d like to know how much are you interested in working here?”  
“You want to propose something?”  
“My name is Zev. I’d like to treat you to a drink.”  
“My name is Dmitry. I’d like a drink — in an hour. Horses can’t wait.”

***  
“I wanted to see space. Think I saw it? It’s just the same as on Earth —flying from continent to continent, two weeks in Africa, two in Antarctica, months after month, from shuttle to shuttle. And when we made it to this Nexus tour…” Dmitry downed his mug and swallowed, not beer but a lump in his throat, “do you know horses are transported frozen? A horse cannot vomit during a jump, no matter how sick it gets. “Best veterinarians, special care” my ass. They last three, maybe four resurrections. There’s a shipment of eight freshly frozen coming from Earth — we’re running out.”  
“As I understand, you’re less than thrilled.”  
“Not thrilled at all. Worst I’ve ever gotten myself into. Another mug?”  
“On me, have some of those snacks — sorry, not Earth import, but there’s no other.”  
“No other on the whole planet?”  
“There’s anything on Komarr. But not in this sector, the better-off eat and shop in other places, farther from the shuttleport.”  
“At least beer’s decent”, the Earthman chewed on a glossy cube, hurried to wash it down and asked:  
“So, Zev, what do you want from me beside a dead horse story?”  
“Ask a few questions.”  
“I’m all attention.”  
“You are an Old Earth historian?”  
“I’m a showman. And horse caretaker. There are too many historians on Earth.”  
“And, judging from your name, surname and how’s that called, um, patronymic — guess you speak Russian?”  
“Da, konechno.”  
«Is that your mother language? Sorry, but I’ve seen stranger combinations of name, language and biography in the Nexus.”  
«I’ve defended a magisterial thesis “Aspects of Napoleonic wars armies organization on the example of Russian and British cavalry” at the Novosibirsk University. In Russian.”  
“So good. You’ve dealt with Old Earth English too, say, early colonization times?”  
“Zev,” Dmitry laughed into his mug, “by the early colonization times there was no cavalry.”  
“Cavalry be damned. Everything be damned, and colonization too.”  
“Sorry, but what do you mean by “damn colonization”?”  
“Listen, Dmitry Aleksandrovich. You’re flying away soon, right?”  
“Yes. Pol is the next. If I break the contract… well, earned a ticket home so far. That’s all. The tour is meant to last two standard years, our promoter’s good with figures.”  
“So is Zev Biton. Dmitry Aleksandrovich, I need to…”  
“Here’s the decision point. He’s the one you need. Five thousand change nothing — can’t stock up for a proper cargo run, and selling the ship, well, a month earlier this way, a month later the other.”  
“I shall pay you five thousand Betan dollars. For a flight there and back, and field work.”  
Frozen with the figure, Dmitry asked Zev to repeat, and also to tell where would the nearest fields be.  
“It’s a commercial secret, but you’re no pilot or shipowner. If you rise and walk away, that’d be just a story heard at a bar. Well… a lost colony has been found. The colonist survived but went… wild. Native. Pre-industrial. They’ve got cavalry and all sorts of ancient weapons. And the colonists they descend from were mostly Russian and English. Dmitry, I need a contactee. Five thousand is peanuts, I’ll pay that if we return empty-handed. If we work it out, I’ll be giving you a share. If you get to deal with those aborigines, I’ll pay fifteen percent. Say, ten as a go-between and five as interpreter. Do we have a deal?”  
***  
“There’s one thing I believe in,” Zev offered the guest a seat in the shuttle and took the empty pilot’s chair himself, “in organization. Cartels, states, so on. I’m no longer a young and not always a legal trader, Dmitry, and I want more than just money. I need a position, a title, a monopoly. The Galactic Purveyor to the King, or Khan or whatever. We’ll find the boss and present fine gifts. You’re a historian, check what a chieftain would need most.”  
Dmitry’s contemplation was brief.  
“Weapons. Cheap secondhand plasma rifles. Walke-talkies. Modern medicines. Kind of a military cargo cult.”  
“What?”  
Dmitry explained in detail, even reached for his slate and drew a picture of a stick-and-straw airplane.  
“No, that’s not so. We’ll really bring stuff. We’ll be working to make a normal planet out of them — otherwise someone like Kshatrians may barge in, drop a nuke and claim everything for themselves. Imagine how much the Betans could pay for a piece of normal M-type planet, a continent or what’s the name, archipelago? Speaking of weapons… well, one can get some gifts for chieftains right here, from pawnshops and flea markets. Army stuff will mean going to Jackson’s Whole. And also, spend a couple hundred on blinking trinkets from the UKA store.”  
“Gifts are good,” agreed Dmitry, “but how are we to establish contact?”  
“Well, I’d go the proper alien way.”  
“What do you mean, Zev?”  
“Haven’t you got alien abduction tales on Earth? We’ll track out some lone, umm, Barrayarian, stun him, drag into a shuttle, pump full of fast-penta, get our answers, then stun again and kick out.”  
“Your plan, Zev,” Dmitry paused drawing his list of first necessity goods, “has a shortcoming. Where are we to get fast-penta?”  
“Sorry for not introducing myself properly. I am Zev Biton. I am a Komarran non-incorporated trader. I have in my safe ten doses of passable Jacksonian fast-penta, with allergy test and antidote. A captain’s got to deal with all sorts of folks, dear Earthener. Sure, importing psychoactive substances to Komarr is highly taxed to support the local industry, but I’m keeping my store in orbit. Any trader or pilot that’s been to Jackson’s Whole brings back interesting souvenirs.”  
“I’ll consider that. But should we rather get some microcopters and observe?”  
“Microcopters? You mean toys for playing spies? I had one as a boy, it drowned in soup.»  
«If they have horses, they have Earth plants. So, they have Earth insects. We can select a camouflaged model and observe the terrain, pick a candidate. I’ll check the toy store catalog. And also, I’d get an invi-cloak.”  
“An invi-cloak? But they radiate in infrared!”  
“Zev, after six hundred years of isolation one could forget such a word exists.”  
***  
“Here. Won an auction,” Zev kicked a dark gray rugged box that’s been places, judging by the worn corners and extra holes from lock replacement, “twenty-two of them. Got a shortage discount.”  
“Twenty-two of what?” Dmitry was busy repacking trade goods to fit as much as possible into crates. To the right, a pile of empty walkie-talkie boxes mounted, to the right spheres from eternal lights rolled around the floor, in front packages of monocrystalline pocket knives lay crumpled.  
“Plasma rifles. Old Polian make, should be close to century old, even used in some of their wars.”  
“What are we supposed to charge them from?”  
“Bought two multi-fuel generators. Oxygen and any flammable fluid, alcohol will work, vegetable oil — even better.”  
“That’ll do. And here is what I found at a pawnshop.”  
“Wow, that’s… that’s not old, that’s a work of art!” Zev gingerly took the piece made maybe even on Earth, “is it really metal?”  
“No, a decorative layer, normal ceramic underneath. Two sets of harness — a tooled leather holster with belt and a concealed carry web. Just watch that switch.”  
“Hey, so it’s not a needle gun?”  
“A needle gun with integrated stunner. Two in one. Just the toy for a boss.”  
“Good. We got weapons, anything we didn’t get?”  
“No slates here at all. No one on Komarr would need a cheap, rugged flexible slate. Anyway, no idea what we need to record on them. This will wait till… till we’re back.”  
***  
Dmitry took his bloodshot eyes from the screen and dictated a comment.  
“Note. A language with simple and predictable structure. With preposition-based cases. With articles. With regular verb conjugation. But, a the same time, about half of it is lexically Russian, well, French has been swallowed by English before. Phonetically, the most complex sounds have been dropped or smoothened. No “th” in local “English”, no “ж", or “ы” in local “Russian”. Really need to find someone educated. End of note.  
Diary. Contact target identified. Name - Spiros, surname something like Rudzutakis. So the letter’s address said. Occupation – sort of manager at this… estate. Young, looks about 25 standard, smart, daring, very displeased with his lot. Yesterday late evening went to the next village. If he does today, will try intercepting in the forest. End of entry.”  
***  
“Ya su.”  
“Ya su,“ replied the young man, looking at the stranger in total surprise.  
“Me lene Dimitrios,” said Dmitry in what he hoped sounded like Old Earth New Greek.  
“Me lene Spiros,” replied he and switched language after a glance. “Yu strandge, spik Inglish?”  
“Yes,” replied the contactee, “you live here, Spiros?”  
“Da. Apopu ise – you otkuda?!” inquired the local.  
“I am from the sky,” Dmitry left no option, pointing upwards, “Stars. Asteri. Galaxy.”  
“Ril…?” Spiros spat in disbleief.  
“Da.”  
Spiros looked closer at the alien — a hundred ten UKA were not wasted. Such a suit would be funny under a Komarr dome and lethal in Betan outdoors, but the high-visiblity sparking, glittering worksuit was definitely not the same as the Barrayaran’s homespun pants and knitted sweater.  
“Tru?”  
“Need proof?”  
Dmitry slapped his chest, turning on blazing orange suit illumination.  
“Mutantos!!!” Spiros threw both hands in the air with the signs of horns, as if approving a solo at an ancient rock music concert.  
“Friend! No!” Dmitry dropped the first treat to the ground between them.  
“Zolotas?” seeing the three-fingers wide disk of gold slap the wet ground, the local mixed up his own languages.  
“Tebe. Take it.”  
“Ааа... mi? mi?”  
“Yes.”  
The guy cast a furtive look around, picked the disk and instantly hid it in a belt pouch.  
“Wat u want?”  
Dmitry displayed empty palms, bowed and spoke:  
“We come in peace. Take me to your chief. My prishli s mirom. Kto y was glavny?”  
“No,” replied Spiros after a brief thought, “Vormaccready is one old rear of chevre. Uncle to me serves at Emperor. I write letter at him in once.”  
“Emperor Dorca?” asked Dmitry, that name and title’s occured in a couple inscriptions seen from the drone.  
“His,” Spiros looked skyward, “Imperial Majesty Dorca Vorbarra.”  
***  
His Imperial Magesty Dorca Vorbarra wiped his face, put on a dry shirt instead of sweat-soaked tunic and drank a small glass of his favorite beverage —iced barley water. It’s midnight, need to sober up a bit and decide what to do with Constan Vorrible’s District and Vorkavigny’s wooing of Jolene, or the details of drunkenly sincere conversation will be forgotten, erased from the head. One thing Vordumenko’s great at is gulping down Dendarii vintage, and Statter can outdrink any count… so, Vorrible Jr.’s wife is expectant again, and maybe this child will both live and be acceptable.  
“Nikos? Come in.”  
Nicos brought in a tray with a light and very early breakfast, looking distraught as never. Well, maybe once Dorca has seen his trusted chamberlain like that, on the day succession was announced. What could have moved the serene Greek like that?  
“What’s the matter?”  
“Sire, my nephew… Spiros… wrote me a letter.”  
“He couldn’t write before?” chuckled the Emperor.  
“He could. He’s smart and true, and serves at Vormaccready’s estate at Bent Lake...”  
“Trouble? Boy needs a new place?”  
“N-no, Sire. This is not trouble, this is… We’ve been discovered, Sire.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
“A ship! A starship flew from the sky!”  
“If this makes lady Vorrible bear another with two… What?! Nicos?! Nicos?!”  
The chamberlain bolted upright and spoke out:  
“I have a letter addressed personally to You. From… I don’t know, Sire. Swear I’ve never seen anything like that.”  
“Give it to me,” said Dorca. He felt the unusually crisp, impossibly fine and blindingly white paper, read the lines of impossibly even letters, “I have seen like that. At the Treasury, but there the paper got gray and the letters smudged. This doesn’t look fake.”  
“Your Imperial Majesty,  
We greet You on behalf of the Galactic Community and humbly ask…"  
“Vorrible. Vorkavigny,” Dorka groaned out loud, clutching his sides to contain laughter, “dear Counts! And their Council! Nikos, you still here?”  
The chamberlain appeared from the corner without a sound — in the old castle Dorca would have thought of the Donna Vorinnis ghost.  
“Yes, Sire”.  
“Nikos, you sure no one else saw this?”  
“This was inside a letter from Spiros, the seal was intact,” the chamberlain shrugged his shoulders; if there’s someone poring through the private letters of the servants, the Emperor knows better.  
“We’re going, Nikos.”  
“To Vormaccready?”  
“No. We’re going to the Bent Lake. Just me and Xav, you and Reginald. Get supplies, spare horses, the stuff — tell everyone we’re off hunting.”  
***  
His Imperial Majesty Dorca Vorbarra set down the empty can of Komarran Nexi-Cola, ran his finger over a slate enjoying the play of three-dimensional pictures and addressed the shuttle’s owner:  
“Mister Biton? I agree. You will be that… purveyor to the Crown. My merchant in the Galaxy. I grant you exclusive privileges.”  
“Thanks, You Imperial Majesty, but...”  
“There is always a “but”. Speak.”  
«Your Majesty, the Nexus…” the Emperor furrowed his brow, recalling it was the alien’s name for the total of inhabited worlds and nodded, allowing Zev to continue, “the Nexus is not someone’s private property. There’s no way to hide a planet. At most, in a couple years the discovery of my colleague Rami Tolinni will be checked by the Astronavigation Bureau. Then the Census representatives will arrive.”  
“What’s that and what’s that for?”  
“That, Your Majesty, is a service founded exactly after contact with the Barrayar colony was lost,” explained the Komarran,” its representatives from time to time visit every inhabited planet that has no active space presence. To make sure they’re, ahem, still there. I could maybe influence the Komarran Astronavigation Bureau, present the profits of exclusive trade and so on to buy some more time, but the Census is Old Earth-based. They publish everything, openly and fully.”  
“So, others could fly here?”  
“Others will, Your Majesty, for sure. Sooner than we’d like. I’ll have to go in hiding already — complicate routes, buy goods through intermediates, not spend too much of my earnings.”  
“But you want to work with me?”  
“Surely, Your Majesty.”  
“I need a thousand plaz-ma rifles.”  
Zev nodded, mentally calculating a deal with young Fell at Jackson’s Whole.  
“I also need a comm-machine for the headquarters and every garrison. With instructions even fools will understand.”  
“We’ll need to launch a satellite in geo… barrayaro-stational orbit.”  
“Do that, whatever it means. Also, I guess galactic medicine is not like ours. You’ll bring me a Physician in Ordinary. Looks like you’re good with hiring people. So get a smart medic, with a supply of medicines and so on - I’ll shower him in gold. I’ll dote over him if he can study our mutations and diseases. And, of course, he’ll need skills in patching wounds too, and teach all he knows.”  
“I’ll find such a man. “  
“Convince mister Dmitry Shkorin to stay here. If not now, then next time. Barrayar needs books. He must gather a library and bring your, galactic printing press. Books on everything we’ve lost. I don’t even know how much we lost. More of your wine, Zev.”  
The captain set out a bottle and opened a tray of snacks — unsightly Komarran cubes, but exotic-looking and safely neutral. An allergic reaction from a high guest would be most unacceptable.  
“And now, Zev, you tell me what I need in the galaxy. Weapons, instant talk, medicines — guess those are just the details.”  
“What you need? What you need, Your Majesty, is an embassy. People to represent your interests in the Nexus officially, People to tell and prove Barrayar isn’t a no-man’s land where anyone can do what they please.”  
“An embassy. Good. And what about a ship?”  
“You can buy or hire one, but as long as you have no local pilot and no service station, the ship won’t be really yours.”  
“So, well. Thank you, mister Biton. Looks like my thanks are just beginning.”  
***  
The chamberlain and Guardsman rode behind with most of the load, the Emperor and Prince in front. Back on horseback, on solid ground, with fresh morning wind in their faces. As if the hours in the belly of the starship never passed, among things and materials whose very names have gotten lost, erased from the tongues of men. Hours spent in the company of nervously friendly, aliens, strange but human in any way. Dorca reined in his horse, fell in with Xav, letting the loaded Nicos and Reginald pass ahead.  
“Xav?”  
“Yes, father?”  
“Feel strange?”  
“Yes, father. Soon everybody will.”  
“Don’t rush that… but it’s not what I meant. My dear son, the circumstances of your birth… well, you’re smart enough to understand — you’re not in the line to the throne. At least, not as my heir.”  
“Sure.”  
“An ambassador must be someone willing to learn. Are you?”  
***  
The welcome fanfare died down, doors opened wide, footmen invited the members of the Council to the terrace. Approaching each other for a couple words or demonstratively avoiding each other, the Counts took places at a lavishly laid table. For some reason, a high fence was build on the lawn to the right of the terrace, draped in Vorbarra colors.  
His Majesty arose and addressed the council:  
“I have a hopefully brief program for you. I also hope ince it is over, we’ll attend to the feast with renewed appetite. A minute of attention this way!”  
The fence shook and fell down on the grass, opening a view of the meadow. A couple hundred paces from the terrace a diorama was built — full-sized mannequins in neutral gray were poised for attack, on foot and mounted, the barrels and blades of their real weapons shone in the sunlight.  
“Behold, Counts of Barrayar!”  
Raising his glass, Dorca touched the rim with the blade of his table knife. The crystal tingling hung in the air till twenty booted feet stomped it out. The Vorbarra armsmen swarmed out to the terrace, neatly turned to face the diorama, raised queer-looking, dull metal, if metal at all, guns, and fired a volley.  
The wind carried off most of the smoke, far away the remains of a few wooden frames still smoldered. The Counts rubbed their eyes and ears, switching the eyes between the black, flame-scorched earth and the Emperor’s face.  
“This was the program. Ten Armsmen against two hundred fifty dummies at two hundred paces. Most respected Counts, I’ll answer your question myself. Most respected Counts, let me answer your question before you ask it. This weapon is…” cracking of fire filled the pause, “from the sky. From the stars. From the Galaxy we’ve been cut off for six centuries, centuries in which we became what we are. Congratulations. We’ve been discovered. Please pay attention to the entrees, and then we’ll have an extraordinary session of the Council. I am ready to make a legislative proposition.”  
The Emperor smiled to the Council, with a smile the Counts knew promised little good.  
“My Counts! By the power entrusted to me, due to restoration of contact with the civilization of Galaxy I, Emperor Dorca Vorbarra, proclaim myself the legal successor of the United Earth Space Agency on the entire planet of Barrayar.”  
Even the most unpredictable of Counts found nothing to reply with.  
“What does it mean? First, that all the surviving assets of the Agency — ancient things, machines, books and so on is declared imperial property. Second, a monopoly for all interplanetary contacts is proclaimed. I and only I will decide who will fly in, where and when. What will be brought and what will be taken away. Sooner or later someone of you will create a precedent by breaking this rule, I know you all too well. I promise that precedent won’t be easily forgotten. Also, several men will arrive — a consultant, my new Physician in Ordinary, maybe someone else. Please understand and make clear to everyone — those are under my special protection. Last thing. Prince Xav Vorbarra by my express order has been sent to the Galaxy as the Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary. Now, of most respected Counts have no objections, we proceed with voting on the current affairs…”

***  
“It works! It works, dammit!”  
The Emperor crouched by the machine installed in a hidden niche - a whitish box with lights and symbols flashing on top. Below the device there was a sort of tray, into which a still-warm sheet of plastic fell out. Picking up the crisp non-paper, Dorca started reading.  
_“Good day to you, dearest Father, if it’s daytime. This letter will be forwarded form Zev’s ship as soon as it approaches Barrayar. Hope he makes his round trip soon. I’m sending it after two weeks from my departure in our time, as Zev told me — on space shops and stations there is no day or night, only high and low light and galactic time is different. The day here’s almost three hours shorted, I’m already used to that, just miss sunsets — a trifle, but I miss the saffron over the roofs of Vorbarr Sultana.”  
“Zev has intentionally selected a very complicated route, so there was a lot of “jumps” as they call it in Nexus. The sensations are nasty. Spiros, Regie and I were sick every time; there are pills, but they’re not much help. At least we were warned before. Dmitry and Zev also felt sick, but they’re used to it. Beside us there’s also a pilot — I thought mister Zev Biton is the one driving the ship, but really he is just the owner and director. The pilot’s name is Ari and he didn’t go down to Barrayar, they do not leave ships on planets without a real space port. Every galactic pilot has a device placed in his head which enables the ship to make jumps. I asked Zev how long it will take to train a pilot, he told it’ll take maybe ten years, and not for anyone — need to take many boys around eleven years old and make a jump. Whoever instead of sickness will feel lightness and visions, will be fit to train for a pilot. Never mind, Father, I don’t know whether you’re interested in those details.”  
“I’m presently on a station near the planet Komarr, Zev’s birthplace. Dmitry said “komar” in Russian mean a bloodsucking insect form Earth out ancestors choose not to bring to Barrayar. All the time I’m awake mister Shkorin is teaching me manners, Galactic English and use of the comm console. English is almost understandable, I just write in the Old Earth alphabet all wrong. Many unknown words but they mostly mean unknown things, so I am getting to know both at once. The comm console isn’t really complicated — easier, my dear Father, than speaking with some of the courtiers. There are very interesting books and recorded plays on it, but Dmitry tells me to concentrate, first on the history of Old Earth and settling of the Nexus planets and only then the wars and adventures on them. He said that immediately on arrival to Beta Colony I will be enrolled in the best university to study galactic culturology, but first will present your letters of credence to the Betan government. This will officially make me an Ambassador and assure diplomatic immunity, which means something in Nexus.”  
“As soon as I arrived to the station, I was inspected by a doctor that checked me for every known disease and had many vaccinations. Otherwise one cannot go to Beta Colony without quarantine. I’m found perfectly well, just was told to avoid eating several Earth fruit, which I’ve seen in pictures only; anyway, even this can be treated in Nexus.”  
“Now we’re parting - Dmitry, Spiros, Regie and I have bought passage by another ship to Beta Colony, and Zev goes to Old Earth. From Earth he’ll fly to Jackson’s Unity for weapons (says that’s the largest den of thieves in Nexus, but anything’s for sale) and back to Barrayar. Zev found a buyer for the aircar — that machine from Vormaccready’s garden shed. Said on Old Earth he’ll get for it nine hundred fifty thousand Betan dollars. Can’s say what is that in our marks, but only with the interest we’ll be able to set up our embassy like other independent planets — rent a house in the diplomatic quarter, hire local men and so on.  
Ending this letter in a hurry, please pardon my forced style and inability to describe everything,”  
“I remain your obedient son,  
Xav Vorbarra.”_  
Further on a separate page there was a picture —colored and bright, as if a portal into a curved corridor, where they stood —a tired smiling Xav, imperturbable Dmitry, dazzled Spiros and Reginald, and beyond the windows there was star-studded black emptiness, tempting to touch the sheet and sink a finger in the unknown depth.  
“Come on, Xav,” said the Emperor to himself or maybe the box. Then, recalling Zev’s instructions, he opened the lid, placed a board on his lap and took up a stylus, thinking on the reply’s greeting.  
***  
“Hello!”  
“H-hell… hello,” Xav blurted, carefully looking in the fellow student’s eyes. Back home the bastard prince would have embarrassed a commoner girl with a stare like that, but it was Beta. Here, in the anthill world away from the sky and sun, people’s habit was to look at each other directly. Also, people on Beta dressed or rather undressed so that looking at the eyes saved embarrassment. At the galactic culturology university campus most local female students and staff at least spared the unaccustomed foreigners —some wore flimsy shirts of a sort, others just donned external excursion jackets with climate control set to low.  
“Flaunting your covered assets, Eveline?”  
“Marge, why don’t you leave Xavier alone?”  
“To leave him to you?”  
“I’m not a foreigner sampler like some, by the way. That guy you said was from Aslund…”  
The girl next to Xav in the study room signed. Was it a trick of light, or those Betan body art paints were mood-sensitive, but her breast inscription, “Margery” on the left and “Jennings” on the right, darkened and faded.  
“Uh oh, Your Highness, I am leaving the Prince of Barrayar alone with the Princess of Beta!” blurted Marge and moved away demonstratively.  
Xav raised an eyebrow, puzzled.  
“Well, Xav,” Eveline took a seat nearby, “we Betans to not just declare our system of values, we work on it. We do not worship wealth — because every week the tax lottery brings a hundred thousand to some citizen. We do not idolize external beauty, because any citizen can afford to be plasted pretty. Our authorities, whoever think whatever of them, are elected, and any citizen with a mental health certificate willing to drop private affairs and become an activist will sooner or later get a position. At some committee for the prevention of committees. There’s just a couple things…”  
“Please tell.”  
“Interrupting? Well, interrupt, you’d learn sooner or later anyway. Serving in the Astronomical Survey. And also, for some reason, guess the society needs something impersonal — descent from the Colony founders.”  
“This is why Marge called you that?”  
“Yes. My great-many-great father was not just a first settler, he was captain of the first ship from Old Earth. A non-jump ship, with each journey taking twenty years. He chose Earth after all.”  
The silvery jacket bore a badge saying “Eveline Dubauer” in the same simplified Old Earth script as his own. The name “Xavier Vorbarra” did not even look exotic among fellow students.  
“Don’t be mad at her. Have you seen the new course?” Eveline waved a disk, “or you…”  
“I’m fine with it, though guess I’m so far a primitive society specimen.”  
“Not for long. Beta Central is the best adaptation school.”  
“And don’t trust rumors, I did not demand a printed copy. It’s my Armsman still unable to use a comm, so he carries a bundle of plastic. I was trained by a real Old Earth scientist on the way…”  
***  
_“My dearest father,  
Enclosed is a draft for a fifty-year territory lease contract. Briefly, Betans want to establish a permanent base of the Astronomical Survey for a new look at the Barrayar local space. Six hundred years ago search was not so advanced and has not been completed. There’s a chance we’re not in a dead end after all. They agree on any level of contact prevention — for instance, establish the base on the Southern continent and pledge to not involve the Northern in any way, as if they never existed, if that be your will.  
Also the Betans undertake to restart terraforming the Southern continent, to build and equip a customs and service station by the wormhole.  
Eveline thanks you for the souvenirs and says she wished to shook the hands that created that beauty. Please have the same agent stock up on glass, pottery and weapons. Our textiles, at least here on Beta, are not in demand, and there’s no time to push handicrafts all over Nexus.  
I remain your obedient son,  
Xav Vorbarra”._  
***  
“Again, you sure you want that? It’s wrong season.”  
“I have to,” replied Xav from under his dust filter, goggles and a finger-thick layer of protective cream.  
“You’d better have had a walk on Komarr. It’s cold enough to need heaters. Though, a mask as well. All right, go, take your small step for a Barrayaran.”  
Xav stepped across the threshold into caked dust, forgetting to take a breath in excitement — and when he inhaled, scorching hot air with a sour taste filled his lungs. The human burrows, halls, corridors leading into the cooler interior of the planet ended. Not it was perfectly clear why Betans have to bury themselves.  
A dusty dead world of reddish sand spread under an opaque whitish sky, the entire horizon flowed in strips of mirage. The ground, that is, Beta soil was studded with airlock heads, pipes and antennas of all sorts. Despite morning, several large stars were clearly visible on the sky, and the sun rising behind cast shades of utter blackness.  
“Use a screen, goggles aren’t enough,” Eveline opened a mirror umbrella, permitting to face the sun.  
The home star of Beta was huge — saucer-sized at the distance of an outstretched hand, guessed Xav. Through the screen and goggles its red disk showed a pattern of dark spots.  
“Keep breathing. Unpleasant but not dangerous, it’s low wind today. No one would risk going out in a storm.”  
“There are storms?” Xav expressed surprise with his hands as the faces weren’t much use.  
“Look at the airlock. Guess someone takes the trouble to go out and polish it? Good, let’s walk to that entrance and be done for today. Next time I’ll take you to the lake. It’s got water in it — you have seas, don’t you?”  
“Oceans,” exhaled Xav with overheated air, “most of our planet is underwater.”  
“Water is great. A dive at a water park is just the thing after an outside walk, shall we go?”  
Xav stopped in his tracks.  
“What’s wrong? Go. No reason to stand still outside.”  
“A water park? Is it like, communal baths?”  
“In a way. Ah, I see! We’ll go to an extreme water park. We’ll dive wearing wetsuits and breathers.”  
“Thanks.”  
***  
_“My dearest father,  
I guess the messages on the growing Cetas presence on Komarr have reached you with the previous ship. Please see a copy enclosed just in case.  
I’ve had consultations with some people on Beta that know Cetaganda well. Unluckily, haven’t seen the really higher-ups — ex-ambassadors or senior Survey officers yet. But I gathered a load of opinions that I’ll try at least to list, if not bring together.  
The Cetagandan Empire is aggressive and constantly expanding. But Barrayar in itself is far from a treat, especially considering we’re in a proven dead end of Nexus. If Cetas needed a populated planet, they could have long picked off Marilac or Aslund, who cave next to no military fleet, but more population than Barrayar and incomparable infrastructure development. Never mind Aslund, Komarr itself enjoys independence right in Cetagandan shadow and fleeces them for transit.  
A medic told me that on Barrayar ancient genetic material of prewar humans could be preserved - the Cetas can’t go harvesting it on Earth or Beta, and even our mutations, strange as it seems, may be of interest to them. An old trooper said the ghems might need a surface world training pit, since the haut lords keep improving their fighting breed of men. An economist detailed how the governor of Rho Ceti, the closest satrapy, is having problems with the metropolis for the longest time, and if the Emperor’s entourage manages to provoke him into expensive and risky actions, that’s be a reason to have him removed. There’s a social scientist that developed a whole theory, about how the Cetas have at last found a planet with imperial government and hereditary estates like their own and will cultivate Barrayar as a rival or scarecrow for themselves. When I asked how exactly they’re to cultivate us, he replied “In extreme ways”.  
Eveline, I and all the sympathizers are taking measures to attract the attention of Betan community to what we, just in case, decided to term “doubtful Cetas encroachments”. Can’t be sure about us, but the Betans do have a concern for Komarr.  
I remain your obedient son,  
Xav Vorbarra.  
P.S. Please hear a recording of our family concerto — Sonya has finally grown into violin and would very much like Grandpa to hear her duet with Olivia.”_  
***  
_“It’s serious, Sire! I understand you’re having problems with the Vorlopoulous mutiny beside everything — but this is not some rebellious Vor threat!  
Everything I’ve said before is confirmed! I’ve been able to take a look at the Ceti transports customs declarations and bribed the Marioni dome storage personnel.  
Your Majesty, the Cetas are stockpiling on Komarr extensive supplies — food, rapid construction barracks, land and air vehicles. None of that would be necessary to capture Komar, but will be on Barrayar. This is clear and evident war preparations. Consider war to have already begun, I insist! Hope the message reaches you or…”_  
***  
“All right. Pack everything, Eick.”  
“Aye aye.”  
Gloved hands picked up the last letter, dumped it with the rest in the leather chest, switched the transceiver off.  
“Shall I load this in the HQ flyer or your personal?”  
“Ghem-lieutenant Eick, this is your responsibility,” shrugged the superior, “totally irrelevant by the way.”  
***  
A light flashed on the cliff, among the roots of a wind-tortured pine. A lad of maybe eighteen, country born and bred from unkempt hair to moccasin soles, kept trying to light a lantern using an imported eternal lighter, and pestered his senior with questions. The slightly older, dashingly mustached Armsman replied, feeling himself if not granddad, then father of the yokel.  
“How long we’ll stay here?”  
“Till we see the lights, boy, then we signal in both directions.”  
“Are the alienses… alien really like men?”  
“Damn you for a mate. The one arrived with the General, named Dmitry like my grandfather, who’s he like, a three-headed toad? Wave the lantern, you oaf, here they are! And let’s go down, see your aliens.”  
The black surface of the fjord rippled, a wave arose, broken up by a metallic gray hump. A boat rowed out to meet the see monster, another and a third — sounds spread over the water, of waves splashing on wood and unknown metal, of hushed voices and mechanic whines. A hatch opened and a self-winding belt started bringing narrow tall boxes to waiting hands below.  
“Zev!”  
“Dmitry! What a tan you’ve got since winter! Must be living in the saddle!”  
“Wish I lived at a desk. Zev, have you brought everything on my list? On Thomas’s?”  
“Yes. We’ll unload your books and his meds later. Those get the priority.”  
Dmitry cast a look at a screen showing the unloading, then around the cockpit of the tiny ship, or was it an overgrown shuttle? In the middle there stood some kind of an additional console that looked a museum piece — all covered ins strange indicators and sensor panels, not a single holoscreen.  
“You sure this works?”  
“I flew it. At least this time. Thanks for the beacon.”  
“Thank you, but how do you avoid Ceta detection?”  
“Dmitry, I’ve found a real DXR-11 rotting in an orbital graveyard. It can land, well, on your Venus, not just in this puddle. Telling the truth, I had to find two to assemble this one. I found on Old Earth a historian like you, only for the tech stuff — he’s named Mikhailovich, I’ll introduce you later in the engine room. This Mikhailovich guy took the cargo hold and built a nuclear power unit. That leaves just a few tons of payload, but there isn’t a single detectable plasma circuit. We make a ballistic landing in the ocean, in the other hemisphere, then six days of underwater nuclear, home on your acoustic beacon and here we are. We’ll splash down and take off, cold-power of course in a different place every time.”  
“Well, I’m convinced.”  
“By the way, first boat is on shore already. Will start n your stuff next.”  
“Next? How long can we keep fighting with this?” Dmitry shrugged his shoulders. If not doomed, the gesture was joyless.  
“Well, something you don’t know. Cetas burned our sat, and I’m not yet authorized to wake the Betan ones.”  
“Betans ones? Not yet?”  
“That’s it. Dmitry, no empire meddles with the Betan Astronomical Survey. And those Cetas forced unarmed explorers to evacuate. Beta is in uproar, Cetas cursed from every screen, Xav is the Man of the Month, last month. I got new surface-to-air missiles, Dmitry. Officially, through Jacksonians of course. And will get more. Even access to the Betan observance sats. Tell that to His Majesty.”  
“New Betan missiles… this changes the game. My modest contribution will be loaded up. The Barrayar culture exhibitions must be the very vogue on Beta, am I right?”  
“Right, Eveline does great, what a match Xav found himself! Doesn’t daddy demand him to return and take command of the bush motley crew?”  
“No. Zev, rest assured — Dorca does that himself. Hasn’t softened with time.”  
“That’s well. Off to the engine room and a snack, perhaps?”  
***  
“They’re here! Soldiers! Lots of soldiers!!!”  
Lady Astrelia rose, gladly throwing the needlework in the corner — surely, must be something, at least a letter or message for her and the children.  
It’s been two weeks, but it’s been longer at times, many, many times. Her husband took to the mountains the spring before this, so when troops visited Verkh-Kinley, he did not return every time — sometimes the stayed at a base, sometimes wrote if he had to go on the other side. Sometimes, the best sometimes ever at a war, he’d arrive with the rear guard. When the company was slipping in the night or fog, he’d quietly tap on the windowpane to come in and stay the night. It’s been hard on him from the very beginning, he’s always had to be special — an alien, but such a necessary, indispensable alien.  
On his special request Astrelia gathered and securely hid all his notes, slates and papers form the study — drafts for the next book, frozen in its tracks by the invasion. The first one, published with the largest ever un in the history of Barrayar, send to every imperial office, to every Vor family, bought by most literate commoners — a heavy volume briefly titled “The Nexus”. A brief description of the Galaxy for the Barrayarans. The next one, for which he before the war, but with warlike zeal rode around the continent’s counties, was to be “Barrayar”. A brief description of Barrayar for the Galaxy.  
People entered the courtyard, tired and dirty, dressed in a semblance of uniforms — homespun cloth, herb-dyed brown and green, patched in many places after weeks on the trail. A few familiar places in the crowd: tenants and farmers. Two of father’s hunter guides… never mind, a lady has things to do when men come home at a was. The smarter servants already ran with cauldrons, firewood, sacks — drink, bandages, food, lodging, supplies for the next mission. Good, things are getting done before the last soldier walked in.  
He walked in and right up to the door, without even looking around, although first time in Verkh-Kinley. Young, Vorish bearing, a sword in his belt along with a brace of pistols — Barrayar work, dead cold metal. No one enters a settlement with energy weapons, no one can guess what’s the detection radius of the next Ceta scanner. Maybe her husband’s the one guarding a cache of missiles and plasma rifles, maybe he’ll come when relieved. So far this one’s coming — others make way for the man in dirty green cloth, in worn, scratched tall boots…  
“Must find him shoes to wear,” thought Astrelia, “or he’ll wear cavalry boots on the way back too, wherever he’s to go”.  
He approached, stopped, cleared his throat - what, forgot how to address a lady in the mountains? He’d do well to introduce himself… coughed up at last:  
“Madame, I’m,” the youth spoke the title with pride and without custom, “General Vorkosigan.”  
“Vorkosigan? Count? Your name must be...” …What’s his name, in which language? Petros Peter? “Peter I presume?”  
“Uhm, no. Pyotr Pierre.”  
“Glad to see you, my lord.”  
The scarcely twenty-year-old General took a pause, drew a breath, signed again…  
“Well, Pyotr and Pierre, speak up?”  
“Madame. I am to inform you…”  
Fear gripped her throat. “Dmitry…?”  
“His majesty Emperor Dorca Vorbarra tasked me to tell that Your husband, Dmitry Vorshkorin…”  
***  
“Customer arrived,” whispered the secretary’s voice in the hidden earpiece.  
“Let him in.”  
A customer of special importance, on recommendation from Baron Fell himself. Not a local, of course, Komarran — but a very profitable partner, one who’d cleaned out Baron’s stock of century-old garbage. Mister Biton ships ancient arms to a deep deep dead end, that very rediscovered colony. Money and a way into a new market, he must be listened and obeyed. Most probably, needs some Komarran competitor done in, or an interfering official.  
“That’d be hard.”  
The man in gray closed the list, made a brief calculation and showed three fingers. The customer thought a short while and nodded.  
“It’s a matter of principle. Hope, for you as well.”  
“I do have principles. Especially for three hundred thousand.”  
“Half of which will be paid after independent proof only. Proof proven it’s not your fabrication.”  
The gray one shrugged his shoulders — a client’s entitled to his whims.  
“Cetas, you guess, could try concealing such… losses. From my own experience,” the customer suddenly felt a kind of compassion, “cannot demand you go to Barrayar or into the Empire. But there’s options. If their personnel rotations schedule doesn’t change, here,” another disk was placed on the table, “is when they’ll be off duty and where they can be found. After a Barrayar tour of duty Cetagandan soldiers get a vacation on Komarr, and ghem officers have also a free ticket to anywhere they’re welcome. For expanding the cultural scope.”  
The gray one nodded. The customer signed on the screen, typed in a code, applied a signet ring and an implant. The bank confirmed the transaction.  
“You’re welcome. Have a nice trip.”  
Three hundred thousand Betan dollars. But that’ll take a team of the best. On Jacksons at least, maybe Beta or Old Earth has better agents. This must be done perfectly, a customer like that would be pity to lose. A Komaran oligarch, well, minigarch at least, ordering three ghem officers dead…


End file.
